A flight for a friend
by GwennielOfNargothrond
Summary: Fingon's fearless journey to save Maedhros takes him through dust and desert, over cliffs and through air, through the chambers of Angband itself. But he is determined to save Maedhros. Slightly AU.


**A flight for a friend**

How far would he have to go? Until he reached his goal. How long would he have to go? Forever if needed.

"Maedhros, Maedhros, where are you?" he whispered. "It is I, Fingon. But I cannot find you."

He kept going on, step after step, scaling the hills and examining every hilltop and every nook in case he would find a way to reach his friend. No hidden entrance did he find, no secret window to the fortress on Thangorodrim.

He is still immortal, he thought. He couldn't pass from this world for a smaller wound, the Maedhros I knew wouldn't fall from malnutrition. Slaying him would only send him to Mandos... Fingon stopped in his thought. He would sense it if Maedhros had been slain, wouldn't he? Their bond would not go untouched, not even after all the years of separation, should either of them be slain. Fingon shook his head and kept going. Although Maedhros was immortal he should not be kept waiting for too long. Shuddering, Fingon remembered how Maedhros' grandmother had long ago left the life in Valinor because of weariness. Míriel had been immortal, and yet exhaustion had taken its toll and she had been sent to Mandos. Fingon bit hits lip and shut his eyes as he fought against the tears. He could not allow such a thing to happen to Maedhros. No matter whether Maedhros still considered him a friend, Fingon was prepared to as far as he had to.

Fast below, on the main road in a canyon, he saw a troop if Orcs marching into Angband. Could Fingon follow them and sneak in with them? At this point it was worth a try. Fingon hardened his week and sprinted quietly after the troop. His cloak would shield him from their eyes a while, he thought, because as an Elvish hunting garment it was a good camouflage in any environment, even among the grey ashen stones of Thangorodrim.

The Orcs could not sense him. Fingon was glad. He moved with a silence only an Elf can achieve and kept a distance between the Orcs and himself. That was not to say that he wasn't afraid - he was brave, but at the moment he was frightened for his life. And the life of Maedhros. But Fingon was still prepared to go as far as he had to in order to rescue him.

The small dark gates opened. It was a secondary entrance reserved for minions of lesser rank and probably lead to some barracks of the Orcs. A bigger Orc stood by the doorway checking off everybody who came in. Luck was on Fingon's side - someone in front of him got into a quarrel with the guard and the mayhem that followed allowed Fingon to slip past. He had set foot into Angband.

* * *

><p>Fingon merged into the shadows and looked around him in horror. Orcs swarmed everywhere, some arguing, some sparring, some sleeping, some eating. Fingon felt sick at the smell of rotten dirt and dung mixed with the smell of meat that was currently being prepared in the kitchens. If preparing was what you could call the action of chopping the foul meat of some forsaken mutilated beast, tossing it onto a pan of dark thick oil and heat it until its surface was burnt crust but its insides still red and raw meat with coagulated blood dripping form the pores.<br>But Fingon was lucky. In the corner he found a pile of freshly cleaned Orcish clothing that had yet to be carried away and be dealt to the Orcs living in the barracks. Fingon was surprised that even the Orcs would have something that could be considered laundry, but when picking up a tunic from the pile he realized the term "freshly washed clothes" had to be used very loosely. The filth had been cleaned away, but the garment was moist and possessed a strange and foul stench, as if it hadn't been dried properly. Nonetheless, Fingon put it on, packing away his ordinary clothes into his bag. He grabbed a helm, as well, and after putting it on he brought far less attention to himself than had he walked around in his blue and silvery Elven clothes.

He looked casually around himself trying to not show his anxiety. Observing the Orcs made him realize how twisted their lives must be. They had never lived outside this community. It was only natural for them to have to fight over their food, to bully the weaker ones, to stay in a dark and foul place like this. Fingon approached an Orc hesitantly. He had listened to their speech and concluded that their tongue was not all too different from the Elvish one. Some harder consonants and some less vowels than in Quenya, but the vocabulary wasn't too different. They have been Elves once. The thought came to Fingon as a shock. The Elves captured in the early days had been mutilated into this. Fingon shook his head. _If you could only see this, Manwë_, he thought. _If you could see what has happened to them. If you could see from what fate I am rescuing Maedhros from!_

Fingon walked up to a slightly less intimidating looking Orc who wasn't occupied by his food. Heart beating faster than ever, Fingon cleared his throat and attempted to mimic the other Orcs. "How is the situation," he asked awkwardly.

The Orc glanced at him suspiciously. "You were asleep during roll call or what?" it grunted. "It's good. The Enemy is still by their camps."  
>Fingon nodded. That would be true. The Noldor hadn't recently moved anywhere from Mithrim."Good," he said. "Would hate to see a battle coming again."<p>

The Orc roared with laughter. "What, you don't want to smash some of the light-eyes?" Fingon laughed awkwardly. Had he given the wrong answer? Apparently.

"Haha," he laughed along with the Orc. "I was joking...Of course... I mean, it's better to attack than to be attacked and have to defence," he clarified.

The Orc nodded in agreement but was starting to glance over at the others who were fighting over an extra bloody piece of food. Fingon tried desperately to think of what to say, drops of sweat rolling down his forehead. His plan about spying and gathering inside information hadn't helped him so far, and he would prefer to converse with as few of the locals as possible. He hadn't all the time in the world to look for his friend. _Dear Maedhros, I am not giving up! _

"Have you heard about the prisoner?" Fingon asked. His new acquaintance grunted in question, a bit absent-mindedly, eyes still focused on the food that was now being torn into pieces by claws and bare teeth. "The prince of the Nol-, uh, the light-eyes," Fingon clarified. The Orcs turned back to him.

"Oh," it said. "Was alive and kicking the last I heard of him. If it's possible to kick in the position he is in... Well I guess it is... Don't know, haven't seen."

"What position?" Fingon asked worried. The Orc raised its brow.

"You don't know? Who're you?" it said and lifted up its arm. "Like this. Hanging."

"Hanging?" Fingon gasped, his voice shaking a bit. He had pictured his cousin sitting in some dungeon, not hanging by his arm. At least he wasn't hanging from his neck. "In the prison?"

"Either you're new or you're just plain stupid," the Orc grunted, somewhat annoyed, and punched Fingon on the shoulder, not too lightly nor too friendly. "Why do you think they had us set up the hook in the southern mountainside?" it asked, starting at the Elf coldly.  
>Fingon's eyes widened. That reply had been a goldmine. Fingon knew now: he shouldn't be looking for Maedhros inside the fortress, but outside, hanging in a hook! "So that was what it was for. My mistake," he said. The Orc merely rolled its eyes.<p>

"You're not going to get far, wimp," it said, and returned to stare at the food fight to which more and more Orcs were joining. Fingon slipped away, sneaking slowly to the shadows again. Making his way outside he told the door-guard about the food fight which distracted the guard long enough for the Elf to slink outside again. Breathing in fresh air again, he felt more relieved, more determined and more hopeful. _Maedhros, I am coming for you_, he thought. After going through all this he would save his beloved cousin. No matter how hard it may seem, no matter whether Maedhros had abandoned him. No matter what.

* * *

><p>He pulled himself over the cliff shelf using his last strength. Tired from the endless climbing, he wiped his brow and took a small sip from a bottle of water that hadn't been refilled since two days ago. He would have to save it for later. As an Elda he would have usually fared quite well without drinking as much, but the physical hardships and the dusty air made his throat dry sooner than normally. He looked down below: he had climbed high. Over stones, up the slopes, always becoming gradually more steep. He looked up: there was still a long way to the top, the cliffs becoming steeper and steeper the higher he climbed. The Orc he had talked to hadn't said Maedhros was hanging from the summit, but Fingon had so far seen nothing. The misty air didn't make things better.<p>

Fingon rested his feet a while as he cleansed some small surface scratches from his palms. Then he drew deep breath and continued with journey up. Fingers gripping tightly to every hole in the mountainside, he managed to heave himself to the next shelf. Thus, step by step, he scaled the mountainside.

Maedhros had affectionately used to call him "the Valiant" when they still lived in Valinor. Back then his valiant deeds had included nothing more than some horseback tricks and a few foolhardy dives into the ocean. Nothing like this. Nothing that could be compared to a desperate mission to save his cousin. Should he fulfil this quest he would finally truly deserve that respectful title he had received.

By the end of the day, Fingon had reached the top of a ridge. He was almost out of breath for having used his utmost energy for such a long time without even eating in between the climbing. He felt content for having come this far, but as soon as he too a longer look around him, the anxiety that had hid in his heart since he learnt about his cousin's capture, returned. Maedhros was nowhere to be seen. Once again, Fingon stood on a mountain cliff, all the fears coming back, all the horrible thoughts concerning in what condition his cousin and his friend might be. Fingon wiped his face into his sleeve, not drying away only the sweat but also the tears that dripped from his eyes. _There is no hope_, he thought. _I cannot find him. I was foolish to think that asking directions from an Orc could help. _He fell onto his knees and buried his face into his hands, his tears now streaming freely. What point was there in climbing even to the pinnacle if he still wouldn't find what he was looking for? How long could he go before he would be found by Morgoth's spies? And had not Maedhros left him, Fingon, in Araman, alone to walk on an icy journey, himself setting out for a journey he didn't even want to share with his friend. Had not Maedhros set fire to the ships, ensuring that Fingon wouldn't follow him? Why then, pray tell, was Fingon stubborn enough to keep on going?

_Because_, Fingon raised his eyes and stared at the landscape of dark grey stones and cliffs. _Because no matter what he did I have to save him. Because we were once friends. Because I cannot live with myself knowing that I came this far and yet could not rescue my friend. My dearest friend. _

"How I wish I could see you again," Fingon whispered into the darkness that was setting onto the hills. "How I wish I could... one last time."

He sprung up, kicked a stone, threw away his bag on the ground in anger. There was no way he could do this, and yet there was no way he would give up. There was no way Maedhros would die, no matter what he had done. The love that Fingon felt towards him, whether his feelings where reciprocated or not, didn't leave an option where Maedhros would be left hanging from his arm in the land of the Enemy. And thus Fingon was angered, disappointed, exhausted. He breather deeply, gathering himself, and picking up his belongings. The bag lay on the ground, and as Fingon picked up it, his harp fell out. Why had he even taken that harp with him? So that he could sing himself to sleep and never wake up?

Fingon picked up the harp and plucked it absentmindedly. A chord sounded vaguely as something he recognised, as a melody Fingon knew the melody by heart. Wasn't it a song they had sung in Valinor? Hadn't it been Maedhros who taught him the words, when he time upon time got the words mixed up? There was something very comforting in the melody. And heedless of the danger, Fingon sung out the words that flowed into his mind along with sweet memories from green fields, forests bathing in a golden light.

"_I saw the star up high, it glittered down on me_," Fingon sung half-heartedly.  
>"'<em>I am a star of Varda, I'll grant a wish for thee.'<br>__I asked what I should wish for, what I should now reply  
><em>_It told me to wish for something not easy to come by  
><em>_'I'll grant you one wish only, so now you should be wise,  
><em>_Ask for a more special thing you can't get otherwise.'  
><em>_I looked down at my lands, and they were filled with gold  
><em>_I thought of information, of all wisdom untold.  
><em>_'A true friend to walk beside me,' I decided to the star,  
><em>_'A friend who will be with me, when none of others are.'"_

Fingon stopped. His throat had become dry from singing, and he could not reach the higher notes. He hung his head. That friend who would be with him. That was Maedhros. That should have been Maedhros.

"_And now I have that friend of mine, a friend sent by the star  
><em>_And he will stay beside me, when all others are too far  
><em>_And he will come to help me, when no one else will come  
><em>_And I will go to help him, for our bond can't be undone." _

Fingon gasped and looked up. It hadn't been him singing those last few words. It had been a voice he had been on the verge of thinking he would never hear again. He sprang up on his feet and shouted into the dusk: "Maedhros!"

It must have been him. Fingon looked desperately into every direction. There was no one else with such a voice, and moreover there was no way anyone else who could be around here and know that song.

"Up here, Fingon."

Fingon immediately looked upwards. Far up, hundred feet above, above the mist that was setting onto the ground, with only a narrow cliff to stand on, stood a red haired Elf, his wrist caught in a bracelet of black iron that was set into the mountain itself with a thick chain. The Elf's clothes were worn out, his eyes were dark and hollow, his cheeks gaunt, his skin grey from dirt and soot, his hair tarnished and messy and he looked all too skinny for his health. But no doubt – It was Maedhros.

_Maedhros, what have they done to you? Alive, but only barely. _Fingon stared at his friend in shock, before gathering himself and picking up his belongings. Throwing his bag on his back again and spitting into his palms before rubbing them together, he looked at his friend. A new fire had been lit in his eyes. "I will come, Maedhros," he said, putting his hand on the mountainside. He drew deep breath and stepped up to the first foothold he could find.

* * *

><p>Far too high, far too steep. Fingon's grasp slipped again, and he barely caught hold of a rock standing out from the wall before landing back onto the base. It was his sixth try, but he could never climb higher than a few tens of feet. After that the footholds became impossible to find, and not with power of hand, not with power of will could Fingon overcome the last distance. The distance that parted him from Maedhros was so frustratingly small, but so desperately high.<p>

Maedhros looked on from the heights as his friend time upon time attempted to defeat the mountain. He glanced at the Sun. Already setting. How long had not Fingon attempted to climb that cliff? _Fingon The Valiant. You came for me. After all this time, after how I betrayed you... I thought I'd never meet you again. But how I have wished that I would. And so you came – to rescue a traitor. But Fingon, our friendship may be strong and yet... there is no chance for you to save me. _

"Fingon!" Maedhros shouted out. Fingon, sitting on the ground far below, gathering his strength, looked up. "You have to shoot me."

Fingon looked up, panting breathlessly. "What do-," He frowned and swallowed. "What do you mean, Maedhros?"

"Fingon, you want to save me from hanging in this wall for any longer, don't you?"

"Of course. Maedhros, that is why I came."

"Then end my life and end my suffering."

Fingon's face went blank. He stood up where he had been sitting. "Maedhros, I can't end your life. I am going to release you."

"But it's impossible, isn't it?" Maedhros replied.

Fingon stared back at him. He shook his head. "No," he said. "No. I may be your friend, but that is one wish I cannot accept. I can't."

"Can't what, Fingon?" Maedhros shouted. "Can't what? Can't end my torment even when you are the only one who can help me?" He looked away to avoid seeing Fingon's desperate expression. "Can't rescue my body, no, but you can release my soul. Fingon, this would be the one last favour I would ask of you."

"Maedhros," Fingon replied solemnly. He clenched his fists, and fought against showing emotions in his voice. "If our places were reversed... could you kill me?"

Maedhros closed his eyes. He breathed deeply. "Yes," he said at last. "I owe you that much. I would do anything." Fingon didn't reply. Maedhros opened his eyes. "You, on the other hand, owe me nothing," he said. "but … if only you would do it."

Fingon didn't reply to this either. He stood quiet, his fists clenching by his sides, his face staring blankly at the impassable mountainside. Then he raised his hand to his quiver and plucked out a long sharp arrow. Quietly he placed it on his bow and raised it upwards. Staring silently at Maedhros, he attempted to harden his heart.

_Did it have to come to this? _he thought. _I was going to save him. I was going to bring him back alive. _

"Do it," Maedhros pleaded again, but Fingon's arrow head wavered in the air, the point never really focusing on its target: his friend's heart. _For how could I ever break it?_ But he steadied his hand and drew a deep breath, because this would be the last time he could look anyone in the eye. "Maedhros, the only reason I do this..." he said as his eyes started to sting, "...is that I promised to release you."

Maedhros nodded quietly, then he closed his eyes, waiting for the death blow as anyone else would wait for sleep. And again Fingon aimed, now wishing to get the deed done and out of the way, the point towards his chest, or towards any target that would cause him little pain before his death.

"Manwë to whom all birds are dear," he whispered looking at the feathers in the arrow, "take this arrow and guide it swiftly." H swallowed. A swift death even for a traitor and kinslayer like Maedhros. _Although in truth you are neither._ He pulled the string. It would end here.

But just as he was going to release the arrow a sharp pull jerked his muscles and a pain spread in his shoulders and back. He cried out and dropped both bow and arrow and Maedhros opened his eyes wide. "Fingon!" he Fingon could not utter a word. He had fallen onto his knees before rolling onto one side, and now he was sitting, clutching he arms that had become numb. He cursed everything. _If I at least could have helped Maedhros. _

The pain spread from his shoulders. He felt my shirt become tighter, and then he heard it rip on the back. The pain reached his spine and felt as if his shoulderblades were breaking apart. He bit his lip, and clutched himself even harder, unable to control himself as the pain got worse. He heard faintly Maedhros shout something, but could not comprehend. All he could understand was how his own body begged for mercy from the deafening pain. _It stung me so suddenly._ He did not know why. Was it a curse of the Enemy that had spotted him?  
>And then the pain stopped. He was still clutching himself on the ground when he felt that he could move again. But something felt different. Because as he tried to control his arms, his jaw dropped upon the realisation of that could also control something else: two wings. He had sprouted wings.<p>

They came from his shoulders. Big and strong, like those of a falcon, only they were as black as his own hair with tiny golden drops in them, as if they were the wings of a starlet. And when he finally comprehended what has happened he realized that Manwë must indeed have heard his prayer. Manwë to whom all birds are dear... With these wings of a bird I can fly to the cliff up above and - he almost got tears of joy in his eyes as he realized it - at last save my friend.

He spread his new wings and adjusted myself to them before he would risk to fly too high. They connected well with his thought, moved with almost no sound, glittered in the setting sun, and soon carried him up to the person he hadn't met since ...since what felt like an eternity.  
>Maedhros stared at his wings in wonder. "How can..." he whispered. "Do they still hurt?"<p>

"No," Fingon shook my head. "I'm fine now. Don't worry about me. You are in a much worse state."

He was. He was hanging by his wrist, just as the Orc had described. What was left of his clothes was dirty and torn, he looked as if he hadn't slept or eaten properly for ages. Fingon bit his lip, now more determined. Now that he was up here there was no way he would have to slay his cousin to set him free from the bondage.

But the metal chain Maedhros was caught by was much stronger than he would have thought. Fingon had no idea of what kind the metal might be, but it was dark and heavy and could not be cut or bent.

"Fingon," Maedhros said wearily after several failed attempts of breaking the chain. "Fingon, it's no use."

"Wait just a moment," his cousin muttered, still determinedly trying to edge the metal. "I'll get it off soon."

"No you won't," Maedhros sighed. "Try guessing how many days I have spent trying to break the metal by scraping it against the mountainside." He pointed to a part of the cliff where the rock had been scraped smooth. " Look at me, Fingon," he pleaded. "Look at me in the eyes. There is no choice. In the end you still have to kill me here to release me, if that is what you want to do." Fingon looked at him. In disbelief. But he understood the desperation in his voice, in his eyes, in the way he lowered Fingon's hand from the chain. "It's no use, Findekáno," he said quietly. "You have to kill me."

"No," I whispered and despaired away my anxiety. "No!" I repeated with a stronger voice. "Manwë did not give me wings so that I could kill you."

"Manwë hates me," Maedhros said. His knees gave under, leaving him to half dangle from his arm, half crouching on the narrow shelf. "He doesn't care about whether I die in anguish or live in pain."

"Manwë may hate you," Fingon said sternly, and lifted him up. "But I don't. I love you as a brother and would rather die myself than kill you if I had any choice." He dug out a piece of rope from his bag and without a word he strapped it around Maedhros' wrist. "I know you said you would kill me if I asked you to. But I won't kill you. I will cut you free," he said.

Maedhros weighed too little. After quickly giving him something to drink and binding his bleeding wrist into what clean clothing he could find in my bag, Fingon scooped him up and flew away. _I can never repay you your right hand... but I will always be able to take care of you._  
>The journey home was something he could never have imagined happening. With Maedhros safely in his arms, Fingon let his wings carry them both across the northern plains. He saw roads, hills, canyons roll beneath them, and as they flew on, the landscape changed into grassland and greenery. At last Fingon decided they would dare to land. In spite of the all too light load, his arms were tired and he had to change Maedhros' bandages. His poor friend had at some point either fainted or fallen asleep in his arms. Fingon landed as softly as he could without having had much practise. It was bumpier than he had hoped for but it was good enough. Fingon laid Maedhros in the dry grass and started to dig in his bag again. As he unravelled the old bandages Maedhros opened his eyes.<p>

"That was amazing," he said weakly, and to Fingon's amazement he managed to form a little smile. "You flying like a bird..." he fell silent as Fingon continued to bind his hand with new bandages. "I would say you are an Ainurin power, did I not know better," Maedhros when Fingon was done.

Fingon stroke his hair, relieved of that he still had energy after everything: ages of torment leading up to his friend finding him, only to cut off his hand. "I may not be an Ainu, but I have them on my side," Fingon said and scooped up his friend again. Hope was not lost. And indeed, as the Sun started to set, Fingon saw Lake Mithrim glittering in the horizon.

* * *

><p>A shadow appearing in the sky, a great winged figure coming from the North. The first ones who saw it in the distance feared that it might be some beast of Morgoth, causing even more eyes to look upwards. But then they saw how she golden light from the setting Sun and its reflection in the surface of the lake glittered on the wings of the thing. It must be an Eagle, someone guessed, until at last the onlookers comprehended what it truly was. Indeed, tonight would be a happy evening - the marvellous miracle was none other than Lord Fingolfin's son returning home in the most majestic way imaginable, carrying the Eldest son of Fëanor in his arms. The sight was seen on both sides of the lake. The trumpets were not blown only for the joy but also for the hope rekindled: Fingon had left for Angband against all counsel, and against all odds he had brought back what he had gone looking for.<p>

* * *

><p><span>The End<span>

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:** written for_ _B2MEM 2012 using the_ _prompts "thriller", "wingfic", "friendship" and "It's a beautiful sight, we're happy tonight". Possibly some others, too, I have forgotten. I worked many days on this and kept including new ones. :P And I posted it as its own fic too, because of its length. I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless! _


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